“I tay it’s DONE!” he repeated. “Fatty Bastum buyed it for a penny.”
“Fatty Bascom bought it back!” cried Eddie. “I suppose he thought that was a joke on me. My soul, dad, what will we do now?”
For answer, Mr. Rowland ran down to the telephone and sent in a frantic call for Fatty Bascom’s house, only to find the telephone “temporarily discontinued.” Mr. Rowland did not wait for his necktie. He turned up the collar of his coat, cried, “Come along, Ed!” and opened the garage where his powerful car waited.
Fatty had once, long ago, been a Confederate Place boy, but had moved into the Highlands. Driving as fast as he could, Mr. Rowland crossed the city and approached the Bascom place. Once more Eddie looked to see a pile of racked and shattered timbers where a house had been.
The house was there, but no Fatty, although Eddie whistled and called as they drove up.
Mrs. Bascom herself came to her door. She was scarcely taller than Eddie, but smoothly fat as a little butter ball.
“Why, Mr. Rowland, how are you?” she exclaimed, shaking hands and dragging them into the house. “And Eddie too! Come right out to the dining-room. Mr. Bascom is just getting a taste of breakfast. I declare that man doesn’t eat more than a sparrow! And early as this, I know you have come off without your breakfast. Come right out and join. There’s plenty, always! I tell Bascom you never know when a friend or neighbor will drop in, and I always believe in being on the right side.”
Mr. Rowland plunged into the monologue.
“We can’t stay, Mrs. Bascom. We are just on an errand,” but she interrupted as she threw open the dining-room door and pushed them in.
“Simply nonsense! As if you can’t eat and talk at the same time! Bascom, here’s somebody you will be glad to see.” She drew up a couple of chairs and firmly sat her unwilling guests down as soon as they had greeted Mr. Bascom. After shaking hands, that gentleman sat down and picked up his fork.